


Home Is the Sailor, Home From the Sea

by oneiriad



Category: 17th Century CE RPF, Agnete og havmanden (traditional ballad), Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old Marie Grubbe meets Elizabeth and Jack, and Jack's grandparents make an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is the Sailor, Home From the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Og sømanden hjemvendt fra havet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/304842) by [oneiriad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad). 



Summer it is.

The heat has driven Marie outside, out on the bench by the hollyhocks. Occasionally she will put down her knitting to whisk away the thunder flies or to shade her eyes as she looks out towards the black ship and the boat, which is making its way towards shore, slowly but surely.

The man in the bow leaps into the water, wading ashore through the surf. He reminds her of the gypsies Søren and she used to meet, back when they were still travelling from market to market.

“Mrs. Ferryman, I presume?” and yes, that would be her. He speaks with a heavy accent, indefinable and somewhat exotic.

“Might I trouble you for a moment, madam? It so happens that I’m looking for an old lady by the name of Agnete, savvy? She’s supposed to be living someplace hereabouts,” and yes, she does know an Agnete. Not exactly what she’d call a lady, though. More like the village idiot. She lives at the poorhouse, has lived there for many years now, since her parents died. It’s an old story – she’d vanished a few years as a young woman. Supposedly she’d been quite pretty, so maybe she’d been some gentleman’s mistress. Anyway, she’d come back, but nobody wanted her. Why should any man want a wife who had gotten uppity and acquired a habit of singing strange and haunting songs, when he could get one that could milk and plough and even turn a calf in a pinch?

“Listen, madam, ‘tis a hot day and my men are thirsty,” and yes, she can see that something ought to be done about that. He makes a curious little bow and heads inland. For a moment she follows him with her eyes. If only she had been a decade younger, then Old Agnete wouldn’t be the one getting a gentlemen caller today. Ah well, no use crying over spilt milk.

She studies the coin he pressed into her hand, polishes it a bit with her apron. Gold. Hardly a common sight on the island of Falster. She fetches a couple of large jugs of ale and walks down to the beach by the ferry, where the men are pulling their boat ashore. They thank her in their sailor’s gibberish and with wide smiles

“Excuse me.” She turns to find that what she took to be slightly too pretty youth is actually a young woman with a child in her arms.

“You wouldn’t happen to have some milk, my good woman? For my son,” and yes, she might very well have some. Together they walk up to the Borre House and the boy gets his milk.

“Isn’t he lovely?” The woman’s smile is full of maternal pride. Then she lowers her voice, confidentially. “He’s the son of a king, you know.” Oh so young and proud, this one, it’s almost unbearable.

“That’s hardly to his advantage. Sons of kings are no better than other men, and oftentimes they’re worse.”

“And what does the ferryman’s wife know of sons of kings.” Offended, so young and so proud, feels that she knows everything and that the world exists for her sake – completely unbearable.

“A long time ago I was married to one.”

“You? You were married to a prince?” Disbelief and condescension – who does this hussy think she is, coming here with her cock-and-bull stories and then daring to make fun of an old woman’s memories?

“No. As I said, I was married to the son of a king.” She finds the place deep inside where she is still a favourite at Court and the bride of Gyldenløve, straightens her back, looks down her nose at this little girl. “Not that that man of your’s looked particularly royal.”

“Oh, Jack’s not… I mean, Captain Sparrow is not my husband.”

“I see.” So that’s how it is. Well, one shouldn’t throw stones, as they say. At least she had never gotten pregnant, though there had been a couple of close calls – that time in France with Stygge.

“How dare you?” Flashing eyes, red cheeks. “Captain Sparrow is a very dear friend of both me and my husband. How dare you even imply…?” She stops, takes a deep breath. “And where is your husband, anyway? Or do you even have one?”

“There was some trouble. They came and took him away. Last I heard he was at Kronborg, but that was over a year ago.”

“Oh.” Now the girl suddenly doesn’t know what to say, so she stays silent. They sit on the bench, side by side, watching the child crawl around on the grass, chasing a red admiral slowly fluttering from one dandelion to the next.

In the distance black clouds come rolling in. More and more, blacker and blacker.

The crunch of the gravel on the path. The captain is back and if it isn’t Old Agnete he has with him, as old and wrinkled as ever.

“How do you do, Mrs. Ferryman? Have you met my grandson? Such a good boy, has come all the way from the Caribbean to visit his old grandmother.” The crone’s smile is wide and toothless as she pats the man’s arm fondly. Then they walk down to the beach.

Sky and sea are black as coal, black as the deepest pits of Hell. For the briefest of moments a lightning illuminates a figure in the water. The water doesn’t even reach his knees and apart from a few gold bracelets he is completely naked, so it is easy to tell that he is beautiful, one of the most beautiful men Marie has ever laid eyes on – despite of the blue-green skin and the gill-like slits on his neck.

Old Agnete cries out and tears away from her grandson, staggers into the water, stumbles, but the stranger catches her. In the horizon the lightning dance and she can see the couple in the flashes of light, see Agnete’s old fingers run through the man’s golden hair, see his hands glide over her face and yank at her clothes. She can tell that they’re speaking, but the rolling thunder drowns out all other noises.

The couple moves further out into the sea, then further, then further still – and then they are gone, as if they were never there.

The boat is being pushed back into the sea. She watches as they row towards the black ship. The young woman turns around, waves. Then they are swallowed by the darkness.

At the water’s edge stands two empty jugs. Otherwise she is alone.

She fetches her shawl and walks through the rain, to the poorhouse, all the way into one of the tiny rooms. In the bed lies Old Agnete, now the late Agnete, her eyes closed and her mouth curved in a smile that’s sure to scandalize the good vicar. Not that she’d ever begrudge her that.

Lord knows, Marie Grubbe was never one to resist a fine man herself.

**Author's Note:**

> This little story is partly a crossover with an old Danish song and involves a real historical person. So I thought I'd add this little note, in case somebody can't make heads or tails of it.
> 
> First, the song. Agnete og havmanden. In English: Agnete and the merman. A ballad of a type dating back to medieval times. It tells the story of a young woman, Agnete, who is seduced/abducted by a merman. After a long time, he then agrees to let her go home for a visit, but when he later comes to fetch her back, she refuses to go with him, even when he reminds her of their seven children waiting at home for her. The song actually specifically mentions the landside parts taking place in England, but I have chosen to take the liberty of moving it to Denmark, specifically the island of Falster.
> 
> Second, the person. Marie Grubbe. (1643-1718). One of the most fascinating women of Danish history, actually (although I personally wouldn't want to do the reverse-Cinderella thing she had going on). She was born into one of the most powerful noble families, and at the age of seventeen she married an official royal bastard. Literally. Ulrik Frederik Gyldenløve, illegitimate son of King Frederik III of Denmark, one of the richest and most powerful men in the country. She could hardly have married better, socially speaking. Alas, the marriage was far from succesful. Both parties had other lovers and after 10 years of marriage they were divorced (after much trouble, dramatic winter travelling from Norway to Denmark and Marie very stubbornly refusing to return to her lawful husband despite her father doing his best to force her).
> 
> After the divorce, she took her returned dowry (a considerable fortune, actually) and her brother-in-law Stygge Høgh and went abroad for a few years. She then returned to her father, the money spent. The father arranged for her to marry one of his neighbours, Palle Dyre. It was a marriage of convenience, so when Marie fell for the coachman Søren, her husband doesn't seem to have cared. But when her father found out, he seems to have had enough of his troublesome daughter. He appealed directly to the king, forcing his daughter to get divorced again.
> 
> Afterwards she took her Søren and left. For years they travelled, little more than beggars, entertaining at markets. At some point they got married. Now in 1699 King Christian V. died, leaving his widow Queen Charlotte Amalie the islands of Falster and Lolland. She seems to have arranged for Marie and Søren to be given responsibility of a ferry between Falster and the neighbouring island of Møn, and the so-called Borre House to live in. There the pair stayed, perhaps not in perfect harmony Having your husband father two children outside of marriage is probably not a recipe for matrimonial bliss, but Marie stayed with him, as she didn't with any of the other two, far finer gentlemen. In 1711 Søren kills a man, he is sentenced to three years of hard labour. He doesn't survive. Marie doesn't survive him by many years.
> 
> Marie Grubbe has fascinated several very prominent male Danish authors through the years. Ludvig Holberg, Steen Steensen Blicher and Hans Christian Andersen wrote about her - none of them particularly flattering. It seems to have been hard for them to accept the existence of a woman who would prefer the lowest kind of man to the highest. J.P. Jacobsen's novel is somewhat nicer, although personally I think it can be summed up as "wow, women can actually want sex too". The person in my story is my interpretation, though - possibly influenced by this bunch, but I suppose that can't be helped.


End file.
